


Consequences

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Captured by Grindelwald, Grandma Graves, Hallucinations, Hurt Original Percival Graves, M/M, Recovery, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Percival falls in love with Newt in the war, but things don't go as planned. Years later, they meet again and this time Percival is determined to not let the love of his life go so easily, no matter how much it might amuse his aurors to hear him serenade and, generally, make a fool of himself.





	1. Chapter 1

The village was still smoking, the harsh smell of it bitingly bitter in the cool night air.

Percival was sitting on the ruins of some poor bastard’s destroyed home, parching up a hole in his sock – manually; powerful as he was, war was war and it would have been mindless to waste magic on such chores when he might at a moment’s notice need to give his all just to survive. A needle he could use just as well as any man, and use a needle he had in the three months he had spent on the battlefields, choosing to save all his magic for when he truly needed his powers.

Sitting on the ruins some distance away from the tents, parching up a sock, that was what Percival was doing when the dragon rider approached him for the first time.

When the dragon rider came to a halt right in front of him, Percival halted with the sewing, looking up, surprised. He hadn’t expected for company when he had left the center of the camp. In fact, he had hoped to have the luxury of a few moments just for himself.

Scamander’s reddish brown hair looked almost golden in the moonlight, and Percival felt something tighten in his chest at the sight of it.

“Good evening,” he nevertheless said, polite as ever.

“Evening,” came Scamander’s quick reply, and if the man was sorry to have intruded in on Percival’s private moment, he didn’t seem too regretful.

Instead, glancing around as if to make sure they were as alone as it was possible to be in a camp full of battle-ready soldiers, he knelt down with no further comment, positioning himself between Percival’s thighs spread in their usual confident stance. His breathing unsteady, Scamander then placed a shaking hand onto Percival’s groin, hesitantly, before the green eyes, glinting in the moonlight, met Percival’s questioning gaze, if only briefly.

“I-“ he cut himself off, his pale cheeks, silvery in the night, darkening as he blushed. “You- you are a kind man. I saw you giving your rations to the French children yesterday.”

“I can endure hunger better than children already starved,” Percival’s voice came out dry despite of his unexpected, sudden arousal. The Brit _was_ desirable, and it felt like a long time since the last time someone had laid a hand on his groin with such promise. “Rest assured, Mr. Scamander, I do not need you to show me gratitude on their behalf by offering me physical pleasures.”

The blush, if possible, seemed to deepen.

“I’m _not_ ,” was said hastily, with emphasis. “My intention was not such.”

“Then what is your intention, if you would be so kind as to tell me. There are not many conclusions to which I can come, keeping in mind the current placement of your hand.”

Scamander bit his lip, briefly looking up at Percival from behind his lashes before quickly lowering his gaze again. The hand on Percival’s groin remained a steady, unmoving pressure, and Percival found himself reluctant to remove it. It did feel good.

Newton Scamander was the best dragon rider in his regiment. He had a way with the dragons, to such a degree it was difficult to not be impressed by it. In the two months Percival’s regiment had worked with Scamander’s, it had become rather impossible to not notice the freckled Brit who guided roaring dragons with practiced, confident ease as he wished to, who killed cows to take them to the hungry dragons when most wizards trembled as far away as they could get without leaving the camp.

Percival _had_ noticed and he was impressed by what he had seen, but as impressive as Scamander’s character was, he had – as far as Percival could tell – shied away from all the attempts of socialization thrown in his way by their comrades, turning from a competent dragon rider into someone awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin when not around the beasts.

Yet, here he now knelt between Percival’s thighs.

It was intriguing, to say the least, among many, _many_ other things.

“I know you are a kind man,” Scamander’s voice was hushed as if he was afraid someone might overhear. “I have seen evidence of that enough to be convinced, and that is why I chose to approach you. If you could find it in yourself, Mr. Graves, I would terribly appreciate it, if you would take my mind away from this war, if you would grant me – with the help of your body – a few moments to forget.”

This…

was not at all expected.

The needle and the sock were lowered slowly onto the ground as if of their own accord. A callused hand reached out to touch Scamander’s curls, and Percival stroke the locks slowly, wondering about their softness. He had wanted to do that for some time now.

“You wish for a respite.”

Scamander gave a nod, eyes firmly fixed on the labels of Percival’s uniform.

“I am awfully tired of the war,” he said, softly. “I could do with the distraction of a kind lover.”

“I sometimes find myself thinking similarly,” Percival admitted, voice equally soft. He withdrew his hand to tap his knee, considering the man kneeling between his thighs.

Impressive. Fierce. Shy. Submissive and offering and oh so pretty.

“Very well,” he came to the easy decision. “Let us offer each other the comfort we can, under the circumstances.”

They ended up out of immediate sight in the shadows of a half-collapsed primary school from where Percival had earlier that day shot curses towards the enemy, the dark wizards intent on keeping the village under their control. The dark wizards might have controlled the village, but Percival had been among those who had torn it to the ground in the attempt to retake the control over it, and he suspected his participation would haunt him till the end of his days.

Scamander had been ordered to burn down the hospital in which the dark wizards had been hiding. He hadn’t followed the order, had claimed the dragon had “begun to misbehave”, that he had momentarily lost the control over the beast, but at least he had circled above the building to distract the dark wizards for long enough for Percival and seven other wizards to sneak inside through the many layers of shields.

The battle won still echoing in his mind, Percival now bent Scamander over, arranging the man to his liking. The belt unbuckled, he pulled Scamander’s uniform trousers and the underwear down, and – after somewhat hasty preparations – did his best to grant Scamander the respite he had asked for.

In the days that followed, he fucked Scamander behind the storage tent, a few times in it, figuring it was safe enough since they likely wouldn’t meet again after the war and there would thus be no long-lasting consequences. After the war – presuming they both would survive it – he would go back to New York and Scamander would go back to his home in England, and that would be it. The end.

Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Only, his feelings soon began to grow. Where he had before been _aware of_ and _impressed_ , there he soon began to _care_ , to _dream_ , to dream of Them, a life shared. He began to look forward to their encounters, to _plan for them_ between battles, and after two more months, the fucking had turned tender, into love making rather than giving and offering raw pleasure.

At the age of twenty-nine, Percival Graves had quite simply fallen in love, as unlikely and unexpected as he would have considered it beforehand.

When the war ended, he asked Newt to come with him to New York, describing his home in great detail. There would be room for them both there. They would be happy there. There, they could build a life together now that the war was over.

Newt, the love of his life, stared at him for a long time with wide, startled eyes -- then stammered out a refusal and practically bolted away, leaving Percival in the storage tent alone with his sinking heart and a freshly granted Medal of Bravery.


	2. Chapter 2

Usually the torture would resume far too soon, but now the pain had been perfectly durable for long enough for Percival to know something unexpected had happened to Grindelwald. The realization had him chuckling out loud – he couldn’t really stop the laughter once it began – even though it wasn’t really all that funny since whatever obstacle Grindelwald had encountered would eventually be taken out on him, but for the time being the petty, rebellious part of him _reveled_ in knowing things hadn’t been going Grindelwald’s way.

 _“You shouldn’t be laughing, boy,”_ said Professor Winceworth from where he was standing in the corner with his ever present scowl and the pointer he liked to use to rap students’ fingers. _“The fact that Grindelwald is not here yet signals for problems – not only for you but for MACUSA as well, possibly for wizards and witches everywhere. You are perfectly aware you should be out there stopping him and whatever it is he is doing, you should be doing your job protecting the wizarding community and all your people – yet, here you are giggling to yourself like a madman. The Director of Magical Security? The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Pathetic! Never have I seen a Graves as pathetic. Ten marks from Wampus!_

“Fuck you,” Percival muttered because he had always wanted to say that to Professor Winceworth – he still had a scar on his left middle finger thanks to the bastard even if it wasn’t currently visible due to all the dried blood – and because Professor Winceworth wasn’t actually there, he was just one of the hallucinations that had been keeping Percival company, and Percival wouldn’t therefore be given detention.

Hallucination or not, that didn’t stop Professor Winceworth from stomping his feet and saying in his snappish tone, _”Language, Mr. Graves – FIFTEEN marks from Wampus!”_

“Take all the damn marks for all I care. You’re not even real.”

_“How insulting! Young man, you have a serious attitude problem.”_

“One by the name of Augustus Winceworth, yes.”

 _”The nerve!”_ the professor cried, turning purple like he always did when he was particularly angry. _“Detention! I will hawk your parents this instant.”_

His heart suddenly heavy, Percival felt tired, exhausted, and his words came out something of a slurred whisper, something of a sigh,

“No, you won’t.”

For his parents had both died years before he had graduated from Ilvermorny. Fourteen, he had been at the time, at home for the holidays. _A raid gone wrong, my consolations,_ Senior Auror Hakov had said, his gaze heavy when it had landed on Percival. _They saved many; they died heroes. Don’t cry, boy – you should be proud._

 _“It’s okay to cry,”_ said grandma in her gentle voice and Percival had to blink because hadn’t it just been Professor Winceworth standing there, not grandma? He felt fairly certain it had been Professor Winceworth, or Professor Jenkins, not grandma, but nonetheless-

“I prefer you to the professors,” he told her and did his best to smile because grandma didn’t like to see him sad. It was a bit of a strain because the dried blood had effectively glued his skin to place and resisted the muscle movement, but now grandma was smiling as well so the outcome had to have been satisfactory at least to a degree.

 _“Of course you do, my little eagle,”_ grandma said and Percival loved her, she was wonderful and had the patience of Merlin himself, and he wished she had really been there because she had been one hell of an auror in her days and he could have used a trustworthy auror just about now, and even though Percival didn’t like plums or pudding, he would have gladly eaten her plum pudding because wasn’t her plum pudding just the best? Grandma made it, so of course it was.

 _“Oh, thank you, dear.”_ She seemed pleased when he told her, the corners of her hazel eyes wrinkling up.

 _“You’re now in the snowglobe I gave you when you were little, did you know,”_ she added after a while. _“That’s where Grindelwald is keeping you. He must have found the globe in that desk drawer of yours no-one else knows about, must have thought it hilarious to trap you in an item clearly so well loved. Cruel of him, that.”_

She wrinkled up her sharp, pointy nose, looking around critically.

_“I would have expected it to be cozier in here, to be honest. The globe is beautiful from the outside, after all, and frankly, this is disappointing.”_

Percival followed her gaze and looked around from where he was lying on the floor in the shackles that bound his magic and, yes, the one and only room of the cottage was bare indeed now that she pointed it out. There was the spike chair, of course (which Percival hated), and the suffocation coffin (which he hated even more), and the stretching wheel hanging from the stone wall (on which Percival had passed out the last time he’d been stretched), but otherwise there wasn’t any furniture, apart from the plush arm chair in which Grindelwald liked to sit and the full body mirror from which he liked to look at his disguise – Percival’s body – while masturbating.

There was a window as well, too far out of Percival’s reach even though he hazily recalled trying to escape through it once or twice (How had he even managed that? He could barely turn his head now, he was dizzy from hunger and thirst and he hurt all over), and a snowy fur tree stood just outside of the window. When peering past the spruce, Percival could see his own office, his office at the MACUSA headquarters.

 _“He’s keeping the snowglobe on your desk, eagle,”_ grandma sighed, shaking her head ruefully. _“Right in everyone’s view. All your Senior Aurors must have seen it, Picquery must have seen it – if only they would look more closely, they might see you in here.”_

No matter how often he peered out, no-one but Grindelwald – wearing Percival’s smirking face – ever looked in. Sometimes Grindelwald shook the snowglobe and then it snowed outside the little cabin. Percival liked it when it snowed, it was the only pretty thing he saw nowadays, although he could have done without the earthquake that always accompanied the snowing.

“This might become my grave,” he mused. “If no-one finds me soon.”

He considered his surroundings.

“I suppose it’s not that bad, from the outside. At least you chose the snowglobe for me with love, grandma, didn’t you?”

Grandma looked sad, then.

 _“I did.”_ A tear rolled down her cheek. _“But I did not mean for it to become your final resting place.”_

 _”Unnecessary sentimentality never takes men anywhere,”_ said Professor Winceworth and Percival frowned because he was fairly certain it had just been grandma standing there in the corner, not Professor Winceworth. _”You are a romantic, Mr. Graves, and that is one of your greatest flaws.”_

“One of the many.” For once they agreed on something.

Professor Winceworth smirked, his blue eyes gleamed when he stared at Percival. Percival refused to break the eye contact – he was stubborn like that, hadn’t even answered Grindelwald’s question, not once – and eventually it was Professor Winceworth who had to look away first.

_“We will now have a quiz on chapter eight, students, so take out your quills and parchments.”_

Percival didn’t have a quill with him – he preferred to use a pen anyway – but Professor Winceworth didn’t wait for him to point that out.

 _“Question one,”_ the professor said instead. _“Percival Graves has countless flaws, but which was the flaw that drove Newton Scamander away from him?”_

The bottom of Percival’s stomach dropped, suddenly his eyes stung. He didn’t want to partake in this test. He hadn’t even studied this chapter yet, the subject was too painful, too complicated, too personal, too… much. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know the answer, often though he had wondered about it, tormenting himself with it in his rare quiet moments. Why had Newt left him?

 _“Looks like no-one knows the answer to question one,”_ remarked Professor Winceworth. He sounded delighted. _“Ten marks from every house.”_

 _“Question two,”_ he went on, _“what has Grindelwald done with Grandma Graves while her grandson has been imprisoned here? Is she dead? Was she tortured badly before she died? Or has she even noticed that a monster has replaced ‘her little eagle’? Perhaps she never noticed. No-one noticed. No-one cares.”_

* * *

_“Mr. Graves,”_ Professor Winceworth smiled, _“you will die here and no-one will care. Grandma never noticed you were gone and Newton doesn’t even remember you anymore – it has been eight years since your little tryst, after all. You were always just a toy for him, an available hard dick, nothing else. You do have a nice big dick, but other than that, you were never good enough for him. He always knew he deserved better than an auror so dedicated to his work he hardly even goes home to sleep.”_

“I would have been a dedicated husband,” Percival swore with a heavy heart, but Professor Winceworth merely snorted, stroking his grey moustache like he always did when he was happy with himself.

* * *

Perhaps he fell asleep, perhaps he lost consciousness, but when he opened his eyes again, there was someone standing outside the window. As Percival watched, oddly detached, wondering if it was finally the Death coming to collect, _Newt_ scrambled through, gasping for air, drenched in the snowglobe’s water.

Perhaps in his early thirties, he looked older than in Percival’s dreams, older than how Percival remembered him from the war. His hair was longer than it had been back then, curls plastered to the forehead, to his neck, long limbs lean and straight, his white shirt somewhat see-through now that it was completely wet. Freckles. Round green eyes.

Never had Percival seen anything – anyone – so beautiful and he was thankful Death had chosen to come to him in a form as soothing and beloved as this. Perhaps he could pretend, he could pretend it was Newt, that Newt had come for him; his last moments would be happy. It wasn’t entirely honorable to lie to oneself like that and he wouldn’t have done it had he been entirely himself, but he was dying and it wouldn’t harm Newt, the real Newt, in any way, and he only wanted a little bit of comfort, so perhaps he could allow himself this much.

“Newt.” The name tasted wonderful on his chapped lips. “Newton. _Newt._ ”

Death spotted him then. The round eyes widened. He scrambled closer, the lean limbs suddenly flailing and awkward, yet appealing to Percival’s weary soul.

“Percival!” Something between a startled cry and a broken gasp. “Merlin, _Percival._ ”

Death dropped to his knees next to him and Percival prepared to die at any moment. Surely Death would grant him peace? He had taken such a beautiful form, so surely his intention was to be soothing, to make Percival comfortable?

“Merlin, Percival. What did he do to you?”

Percival didn’t think about the words, it would have been too exhausting. Rather, he enjoyed the image of the love of his life. The round green eyes were filled with worry, with fear, with _fury_ , and they were glistening and blinking rapidly. Percival gave as big a smile up at them as he could and used what little strength he had left to reach out for one of the arms. The body felt real and warm through the wet shirt. Percival wanted to tighten his hold, he never wanted to let go, but unfortunately he didn’t have the strength left and so his grip loosened.

“Hello,” he managed to say, swimming as deep as he could in the greenness focused on him. It didn’t feel enough though, just saying ‘hello’ to the love long lost, and it – him lying there and Death looking down at him with Newt’s eyes and him all happy to see those eyes in his last moments – made him chuckle for no real reason at all.

Chuckling had him coughing, hard and long, and suddenly he was struggling to breathe as the familiar taste of iron filled his mouth, and Death was touching him, gentle determined hands moving him into a position that made it easier for him to draw air into his lungs. Words said in a calming, safe, _beloved_ voice, words Percival didn’t have the strength in him to understand, and then he felt a brush of magic, cool and soothing, taking away the iron taste and the worst edge of his pain, and he was so thankful he would have cried had he had any water in him to spare.

His eyes fell closed and everything went silent and black.

* * *

Hearing came back first, although there wasn’t much there to listen to. 

Next, he realized he was thirsty. He must have let out some kind of a noise because suddenly the end of a straw was placed between his lips and he sucked in water and it was one of the best things he remembered ever tasting.

He managed to peek through slightly parted eyelids. It was Newt standing by his bed, holding onto the water glass and the straw, a look of pure concentration on his face.

Not Death then? Huh.

Percival closed his eyes, exhausted. Newt standing by his bed was something straight out of the dreams, fantasies, he had most carefully hidden from Grindelwald’s violent, forceful probing. His mental barriers had held, if only just, against the attacks, against the legimency. He had told Grindelwald nothing, had given him information of neither tactical nor personal value.

 _"Don’t cry, boy,”_ Senior Auror Hakov’s words suddenly echoed in his mind. _”You should be proud."_

“Stay,” he asked the hallucination of Newt, for a hallucination it had to be was it not Death itself. “Stay with me.”

The shackles were no longer there, his magic was free, and before the blackness again claimed him, his last thought was he didn’t want Newt to go, not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Today (the 6th December 2017) my country has been independent for exactly 100 years. It's a big thing for us and I wanted to celebrate by updating. I'm incredibly thankful for the generations that came before me making it possible for me to do things I love, like writing.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up many times, briefly, and every time the hallucination of Newt was there by his bed, looking sometimes resigned, sometimes angry, often sad, but regardless he smiled every time he noticed Percival’s eyes open.

Percival always waited for him to say, “Hello,” in that accent of his before he again dove back into the soothing blackness where pain did not exist.

* * *

Once, the hushed voice of Tina Goldstein drifted to him through the blackness, and before he knew it, he was sitting up on the bed, eyes wide open, bellowing, “REPORT, AUROR!” which had the three other occupants of the room startling so badly Newt fell off his seat and both Peppervalley, shrieking, and Goldstein jumped into a defensive stance while scrambling for their wands.

“On second thoughts,” Percival croaked out, his strength already leaving him, “I want it in writing,” before he promptly fell back onto his pillow - hoping Newt hadn’t hurt himself when he fell off the chair - and was sucked into the silent blackness, this time against his will.

* * *

He was no longer in the snowglobe.

His surroundings had changed: Somewhat coarse but clean white sheets, no blood mattering his hair and skin, no iron taste in his mouth, no bad smells to get used to. Light-blue ceiling above, light-blue walls around. A door which closed and opened regularly and seemed never to be locked. A bedside table so hidden under bouquets that he initially mistook it for a rose bush. A window with no snowy spruce behind it, just the sound of rain on it and a grey sky.

It… was easier to understand than to accept, and even when Percival rationally understood he was in a hospital from the brief moments he resurfaced to see if Newt was still there by his bed, he couldn’t quite believe any of it. For one, there were too many unanswered questions: What the hell had happened? How had he gotten out? Where was Grindelwald? Was this still one of his attempts to get to Percival? If he was really in a hospital, why wasn’t grandma there to see him?

Secondly, there was the whole matter with Newt still being there.

Percival had endured war; had seen a toddler decapitated by its mother under the Imperius Curse while the father stood by stupefied and he himself was on the wrong side of the protective shield to do anything about it; had dug up holes in frost-covered ground in complete darkness of the night, hungry and exhausted and afraid, only so he _might_ survive a few more hours; had grinned at a witch so green she hadn’t even known how to keep her socks from getting constantly wet, had glanced at his watch – and upon looking up again but a second later found the kid’s head exploded by a sniping hex caster.

So yes, Percival had endured hardship and trauma before, and while it had darkened his view on humanity, had left him scarred and his dreams haunted, he hadn’t had such long-lasting hallucinations before. Was he now, after his time with Grindelwald, mentally scarred enough to keep on having hallucinations even now that he was being looked after in a hospital?

It didn’t feel right.

Despite of how lovely this particular hallucination was – to have Newton _there_ – Percival had a duty to his people to get better, and for as long as he was hallucinating, he could not promise the wizarding community he was of a sound mind. Grindelwald – pretending to be Percival Graves – had doubtlessly left chaos behind and the sooner Percival was there to clean things up, the better.

Who was looking out for his people when he was unwell? Who would keep the darkness at bay? Who would make sure Aurors were all capable and up to their responsible, challenging tasks? Did anyone care enough to make sure all Aurors polished their shoes regularly? Aurors needed to know untidiness was _inacceptable_. Any sloppiness in appearance could turn into general slackness and that, in turn, would soon affect the performance of the entire department. Percival winced just thinking about the performance level of his department dropping.

He needed to get better, he knew that. It was his duty to get better. He _needed_ to get well.

He was no longer in pain, whether because his body was mostly mended or for the potions healers regularly forced into him, he did not know. But what he did know was that he could not keep on hallucinating. Hallucinating was hindering his recovery and no matter how much it pained him – broke his heart, really – it was unavoidable – it was _his duty_ – to get rid off the hallucination, preferably for good.

He didn’t want to leave Newt, not even as a hallucination.

But he needed to.

It had to be done.

* * *

“I love you,” he told the hallucination the next time he managed to stay awake for long enough. “I wish you could stay with me for forever, but it’s not good for me. I need you to leave. I don’t want you to, but that is essentially what I need.”

Newt was hugging himself and didn’t look up, wouldn’t meet Percival’s eyes.

“I understand,” he finally said, so softly Percival barely heard it. “I will do what is best for you, always." He bit his lip. "I… love you too.”

Before blackness, a tear fell, but Percival wasn’t sure whose it was.

* * *

”Oh, sweetie.” A sigh, followed shortly after by a gentle hand caressing his forehead briefly as if to swipe hair away. “My poor little eagle. I will take that _barbarian_ by the neck and bend his head till he’s mouthing his _pale little organ_ , and I won’t let him stop until either his member falls off raw and bloody or until he chokes on his own flesh.”

There was only one person who would talk to Percival with a similar combination of mild swearing and endearments and, concerned for what he was hearing, Percival forced his eyes open. A witch, tall and thin like a pine tree, was towering next to him in a green travelling dress trimmed with silk, her grey hair done in a familiarly perfect bun under the bonnet. She was all sharp angles and high cheek bones, but she held herself with such elegant authority Percival could have recognized her from the posture alone.

“You would be breaking several laws in doing that,” he now reminded her and although speaking hurt his dry throat and his voice came out raspy, that needed to be said – he didn’t want her committing crimes, he didn’t want her tainting herself like that, especially not on his behalf. “The forceful handling alone would go severely against _the Lawful Transcript of Forbidden Non-Magical Acts, No. 03-633_ , particularly the articles seven to eighteen, and-”

“Hush now.”

A cool hand caressing the side of his face silenced him mid-sentence. With his heart suddenly pounding in his chest so hard it almost hurt, he stared frozen up at grandma’s hazel eyes, utterly unable to speak.

He had forgotten what it felt like, to be treated gently.

Grandma.

"I'm not going to be committing any crimes, Percival. Of course not. I have dedicated my life to fighting against crime, after all. That does not mean I can't see the appeal of fantasizing of revenge, though mere fantasies they will remain - I shall let a jury to decide on a suitable punishment for that _utter bastard_."

Bellerose Graves, nee Archambault.

She who had taken him in without question after his parents’ untimely death before he had even comprehended from the grief that he, a minor, would need a new guardian. She who had never hesitated to peck his cheek or slap him on the ear, whichever was more needed at the time. She who had pleaded for him to choose a safer career despite of having been a Senior Auror for decades herself, she who had then helped him to fill out the forms when he, not yet out of his teens, had stubbornly insisted on applying for auror training despite of her tears and fears.

_(As long as it is your dream, my little eagle, although I wish you would rather get a degree in Magical Engineering.) ___

Grindelwald had known of her, of course, a famed figure in the wizarding community as she was. He had used magically rendered images of her to torment Percival, but he had never gotten her scent right – faintly rosy but with a sharp edge like resin – and Percival had found victory in managing to force a smirk on his face, looking Grindelwald straight in the eye and telling him, _“Underwhelming spellwork, once again,”_ which usually had Grindelwald sighing and rolling his eyes and putting Percival in the suffocation coffin till there was no longer any oxygen left and Grindelwad finally removed the awakening spell and allowed merciful consciousness to claim Percival.

The hands that now reached out to clung desperately onto the enduring fabric of his grandma’s travelling dress were shaking too much for Percival to recognize them as his own – yet, they moved when he moved them and they were attached to his torso, so his they had to be.

“Grandma.”

He didn’t recognize the whisper as his either.

Surprisingly strong, thin arms wound around him and the bedding dibbed as grandma sat down on the edge of his hospital bed. There was the sharp resin edge among the faintly rosy scent, and Percival laid his head down onto her frail shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent, reveling in on Grindelwald’s failure:

“He never got your scent right.”

A lady like Bellerose Graves didn’t snort, but she did sniffle in a disapproving manner.

“ _He_ got _nothing_ right, Percival. As it is, _he_ is currently interrogated in the most secure holding cell found on this entire continent, while _you_ are once again a free wizard.”

“You have been rescued, little eagle,” she lowered her voice, speaking softly, petting Percival’s hair. “Grindelwald has been captured and _you are safe_. You are now in the Aurors’ Ward of _King Arthur’s_.You have been here for fourteen days and everyone will be _so relieved_ to hear you have finally woken up properly. Aurors Goldstein and Peppervalley have been by three times just today trying to sneak in their reports onto your bedside table despite of the healer’s orders not to bother you – they claim you had ordered it of them.”

“Were their shoes polished?”

A pause. Then, 

“I think so, sweetie, yes. So well they shone. Now that you mention it, it was like they had polished them just before coming here.”

Percival nodded to himself, satisfied for now.

* * *

“I’m so sorry, Percival,” she said. “I never knew you were in trouble; I’ve been... travelling around the world, to be honest. I’ve been to all the places I’ve ever wanted to see – sipped wine in Rome with local witches while you were being tortured. That's where I was when your Aurors finally contacted me, coming to seek me out. Percival... I’m so, so sorry.”

Every time Bellerose Graves had thought of coming back to New York, a new destination had popped into her head and she had felt compelled to going there – _just one more place before going home_ , it had been for her for months, and it wasn’t until Aurors had contacted her after Percival’s rescue that they found the Distraction Hex Grindelwald had cast on her but weeks before abducting Percival.

She had never known Percival was in trouble; she wasn’t the type to owl, pigeon, or even hawk.

* * *

Jenkins came by, awkward and visibly uncomfortable. He kept on fiddling with a pen and turning pages of his tiny notebook as if to make the situation more bearable by distracting himself. Unfortunately, the restlessness grew to annoy Percival who nonetheless made the effort of staying calm and composed. It wasn’t really Jenkins annoying him, he knew, but the trauma shortening his patience drastically – that would ease in time, hopefully. Percival would deal with it. He _was_ dealing with it, but for now, the circumstances were what they were.

“Boss.” Jenkins cleared his throat after they had sat there in silence for many long minutes. “I gotta, you know. Gotta ask you questions. Take your statement, and stuff. If you feel up to it.”

“Very well,” what else could he say? “Go ahead. Let’s get this over with.”

Afterwards, when Jenkins left, pale and shaken and having thrown up a few times, Percival didn’t know which one of them was more relieved Jenkins was finished with asking questions.

* * *

_”How about that password?” Grindelwald sat down on his lap and the spikes drove deeper into his skin, causing him to grit his teeth till he tasted blood. Grindelwald played with his tie, bloody and torn and ruined by now. “Come on now, Percy, it’s not that difficult a question? How about we make a deal, hm? You’ll give me a few nice passwords of your department’s – and I’ll take the pain away.”_

_“Go fuck yourself,” Percival managed, and Grindelwald laughed, cruelly, patting his cheek before getting up and stretching, walking lazily towards the full body mirror in the corner._

_“Don’t mind if I do,” he said in a sing-song voice. “This is a body to be enjoyed, after all. Thanks for refining it to near perfection before lending a copy to me. If only your eyes were blue…”_

_The fleshy sound of masturbating was steady background noise for the pain that shot up from the spike wounds._

Percival woke up sweaty, the ghostly pain still lingering despite of the wounds having been healed already, and he looked widely around. The hallucination of Newt wasn’t there – had never come back once Percival had sent him away – even though Percival missed him after his nightmares so much the ache in his chest was almost unbearable.

Rubbing his left thigh where a spike had made a particularly deep wound, he wondered where the real Newt was. He wondered if he was happy, what he was doing, if he was still working with dragons or possibly other beasts. Newt's mother had been a breeder of hippogriffs, hadn't she. Newt had mentioned it once when they had lied under the starry sky and Percival had asked about it. Perhaps Newt had become a hippogriff breeder as well, following in his mother's footsteps.

Percival thought about Newt for long enough for the thoughts to turn into wistful dreams. From there, it only took one quick twist for his mind to take him back to the nightmares.

* * *

He didn’t know how he had been rescued.

“Can’t tell you, boss,” Jenkins had sounded apologetic and the pen fiddling had intensified. “The healers said you need to get better before we bring up stuff like that. Wouldn’t want you to go mad, or something, would we.”

“I suppose not,” Percival had grumbled, annoyed. Apparently it was “just fine” for him to relive his nightmare of the abduction by talking about it to both Aurors and mind healers – for as long as he didn’t know anything about the good part where he was rescued. It didn’t make sense to him, but to healers it seemed to do.

“You’ll get the whole story when you’re ready, yeah?” Jenkins had looked so sorry about the whole ordeal Percival had felt bad enough for him for his annoyance to slightly lessen.

* * *

“I suspected something was amiss.” Picquery tapped her knee with a finger, an unusually deep frown marring her face. “I knew you weren’t quite yourself, seeing as there were several misspellings in your reports, not to mention the unusually high amount of random Auror transfers you insisted on me approving.”

She sighed, long and heavy.

“I assumed you were having problems in your personal life, seeing as your grandmother seemed to be avoiding you, and I didn’t want to pry. I was giving you time to pull yourself together, but if things hadn’t gone as they did, I would have soon called you – Grindelwald, I mean – in for a discussion.”

She didn’t apologize for anything – she never did and never would – but her regrets were clear in the way she awkwardly patted his shoulder before leaving, wishing him a “speedy recovery” because his job was “waiting for him”.

“I hope to see you back in your office soon,” was the last thing she said before stepping out of the door, slipping quietly past the sign that said, “NO APPARATING OR DISAPPARATING INSIDE THE HOSPITAL PREMISES.”

* * *

Almost two months after being rescued, Percival was back in the lobby of MACUSA. It took him an unusually long time to make his way to the third floor to his office, for there were witches and wizards eager to shake hands with him to welcome him back.

 _The New York Sorcerer_ had apparently run an article about the whole debacle, portraying Percival in the most positive of lights, turning him into a martyred hero of sorts much to his bewilderment, while the acts of MACUSA and several political figureheads – Picquery included – were put in question. The journalists had even analyzed Grindelwald’s actions – or what was publicly known of them (as a result of Grindelwald's actions, there was apparently political tension forming between MACUSA and the Ministry over a British civilian's involvement) – by which time Percival, exhausted already though early morning it still was, had put the paper aside for later reading.

He would take it with him to the restroom, later, he decided, and stuffed _The New York Sorcerer_ into the magically expanded pocket of his favorite black coat, promptly forgetting it once he got engrossed in work.

At noon, Picquery came to inform him his day was over and it was time for him to go back home. Reluctantly, he obeyed, for otherwise Picquery might have reconsidered her allowing Percival to come back to work already.

Grandma came to visit with her own version of fish soup and insisted they ate together. Politely, Percival pretended to like the soup even though tomato purée didn't go well with fish and cucumber, as far as he was concerned. She looked nonetheless delighted (which Percival counted as a win) and promised to bring him more (which he didn't).

* * *

He startled awake in his own bed in his own bedroom and couldn’t quite get his breathing to calm down even though it was clear he was not in the suffocation coffin, after all.

* * *

It took him several long days to go through the predictable chaos Grindelwald had left behind.

Picquery had had the sense to get Goldstein back, but there were several other Aurors whom Grindelwald had transferred away, out of any immediate contact with him: they had been too curious, too close to realizing something was the matter with their head of department – they had been a risk in need of eliminating. Senior Auror Adams was found swiping the floors of _the Archives of the History of Magical Crimes in the United States of America_ in Minnesota, while both Bukoski and Smith had been transferred to Alaska for “tracking any suspicious criminal activity”. A handful of Aurors showed signs of having been recently under the Imperius Curse – they were given medical leave – and Percival went personally through his whole personnel, suspicious of most of anyone until proven innocent.

The snowglobe was no longer on his desk – it was now evidence, after all, as well as a crime scene – but folders and parchments had gathered in high piles both on the desk as well as around it. Percival smiled at the sight of them. Paperwork, that he didn’t mind.

(He cringed seeing the unfinished report Grindelwald had been in a process of writing. So many basic grammar mistakes – how had the wizard ever passed for him?)

* * *

One evening, sitting in the quiet cafeteria with Goldstein and Adams after a particularly long meeting over the Stewart case, eating tasteless stew for late dinner, the flash of the blue coat came as much of a surprise as the little bugger that tried to steal his cufflinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind, thoughtful comments! They made my day and I wanted to write faster.


	4. Chapter 4

Suddenly, there was a wriggling niffler holding onto his wrist like its life depended on it. The thing appeared to be reaching for Percival’s golden cufflinks, the ones given to him by Grandma on his tenth birthday, and Percival – pausing in eating his stew, the spoon half way up to his mouth – looked down at the animal in surprise. The look of surprise was quick to turn into a stare which, in turn, became an outright glower, one extremely disapproving.

“Not a good idea,” he told the animal with a bit of a growl and ignored the part of himself that wanted to be amused – crime was no laughing matter, regardless of whether the thief was a human or a creature that resembled Uncle Malcolm in its expressions. “If you are an animagus, I suggest you reveal your identity to me at once before the situation escalates further. Consider yourself warned.”

No animagus appeared.

Instead, upon noticing it had been caught in the act, the niffler went limp and unresisting and a pair of wide black eyes looked up at Percival as if to plead innocence. Percival, for his part, had seen enough minor offenders during his respectable career to recognize one when he saw one, regardless of the species, and so he wasted not a moment to cast the spoon aside in order to catch the niffler by the neck, firmly but gently as to not hurt the little beast.

“Is that a platypus?” asked Adams with his mouth full of bread and sausage, eyeing the niffler curiously.

“It’s unbecoming of an auror to speak with their mouth full,” sniffed Percival just as Goldstein said, “He’s not a platypus, James, but a niffler. And his name is Henry.”

“Henry?” said Percival, carefully, and Goldstein flinched, her mouth snapping shut, as if she only just realized she had perhaps said something she shouldn’t have. He moved his calculating gaze from the… Henry to his auror.

Goldstein, biting her lip, clenched the fork in her fist, her face paler than usual as she carefully avoided looking at either Percival or the thing in his hold. Percival narrowed his eyes at her. She swallowed and began to fork up what was left of her lasagna with forcefully relaxed movements, never once looking in Percival’s way.

The niffler was trying to wiggle free. Percival hugged it close to his chest to prevent it from hurting itself, while a false smile spread on his face. It made Adams flinch and look hastily down at the crumbs left of his sandwich.

“Henry, you said,” Percival’s pleasant tone held a predatory note. “Tell me, Goldstein, how exactly are you familiar with this _Henry_ who tried to steal my cufflinks? No auror should condone theft. You need to explain yourself.”

“Of course I don’t condone theft, Sir,” said Goldstein, hastily, “but there is more to this than-“

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” spoke a soft voice from behind Percival. “Henry is in my care and he got away while I was bathing him.”

“Oh, Newt…” sighed Goldstein with a slow shake of her head, while Adams grinned and said something about forgetfulness, something Percival didn’t listen to, barely even heard from the sudden pounding of his heart.

“I am terribly sorry,” said the voice behind him, but Percival couldn’t respond, couldn’t turn around. He held the wriggling niffler in numb hands, as the world around him grew slow and silent. Nothing existed but the man behind him, but the voice that had apologized.

Percival recognized that voice.

He loved that voice.

He had loved it when it had whispered sweet things in his ear, when it had called him _darling_ and _my love_ and _the bravest of wizards_ , and he had loved it when it had mumbled about marmalade bunnies and other nonsense in the midst of a dream, and he had loved it when it had comforted him and given him hope when he had missed home and peace and his old life, and even then Percival had loved that voice when it had stuttered, _”I… can’t, Percival. I’m so sorry. We can’t. It will be for the best, if I go b-back to England and you’ll go back to A-America. I can’t accept. I’m so s-sorry. I… I’m… terribly sorry.”_

Yes, Percival had loved that voice with passion, he still did, although “love” was too soft a word for such pain and torment love could sometimes be – a word harsher was needed, for love was sometimes harsh and cruel and painful, not fluffy like the word describing it.

“Newt,” Percival finally managed, without turning around. The name fell easily onto his lips, it tasted sweet as always, sweeter even, after so long.

“Hullo, Percival,” came the answer from behind. “I’m glad to see you well.”

Slowly, with great effort and determination, Percival stood up, holding the niffler to his chest. Mustering all his self-discipline, he forced himself to turn around, to face Newt, _Newt_ who was standing right there, right behind him, close enough to touch, barely an arm-length away.

Eyes like the waves of the North Sea, neither green nor quite blue but something of the both of them, deep and occasionally stormy. Shy on the surface but understanding and compassionate and wise when you saw deeper, persistent enough to get through granite, patient enough to polish the sharpest of rocks, brave and strong enough to obey his true nature.

“You look good,” Percival blurted out and Newt’s cheeks got a rosy tint to them.

It was the truth – Newt did look good. He was even leaner than back… back then. His face had lost its boyish roundness, but the freckles were still there, just as Percival had remembered them, and while the hair was a few shades darker than it had been, it still curled delightfully and was perfectly untameable like Newt himself.

“Thank you,” said Newt, and while his words were mostly aimed at his worn boots, his eyes kept on wandering back up to Percival as if he neither could get enough of watching a love long lost. “So do you. You look… even sweeter.”

Percival couldn’t help his wry smile. Sweeter? Sweet, him? Perhaps, if you called aging that. He had grey in his hair, had scars old and new all over his body. He wasn’t yet as fit and muscular as he had been before his abduction by Grindelwald, despite of his daily workout routine. He had a tendency to frown and glare.

Nonetheless, “That is kind of you to say,” he said because it was – Newt had kind words hidden in every corner of his beautiful soul.

They looked at each other, Percival drank in the sight before him, not quite convinced this wasn’t a dream, a hallucination, a spell – up until Newt gave a start, his face flushing red.

“O-oh,” he stuttered, reaching out with both of his arms towards the niffler. “Here I am, standing like an idiot while you must want to get back to your dinner. Please, give Henry to me and I’ll take him back to the suitcase. I promise you won’t see him again, we won’t bother you again. Let me have him and we’ll go.”

Instinctively, Percival held the wriggling niffler fast to his chest.

Newt wanted the niffler, he was here for the creature and only for the creature. When he got his niffler, he would leave.

“Where are you keeping him?”

Anything to win some more time, Percival decided, and Newt hastened to explain about a suitcase where he kept all kinds of creatures. Barely into his seventh sentence, however, he was rudely cut off,

“There is a whole report about Mr. Scamander’s suitcase on your desk, Sir. It contains all the information you might need. I wrote it myself.”

Goldstein.

Percival had completely forgotten about her and Adams. He wanted to shoot a glower at her over his shoulder for interrupting, but that would have required turning away from Newt. If he turned away from Newt, Newt might… run away, perhaps, disappear, leave, _not be there_ the next time Percival looked. No. For as long as Percival kept an eye on him and held the niffler to himself, Newt wouldn’t go away.

It was selfish and he couldn’t justify it by any part of his moral code, but yet, he was determined to have a few minutes with Newt. A few minutes. Just a few. Even one. Then he would allow Newt to leave.

“I will have to write a report about this.”

“Do you?” Adams sounded surprised. “Isn’t that a bit much? I mean, wouldn’t an oral warning do?“

“It really is a minor offence,” Goldstein agreed. “Not serious enough to require documentation, by any means.”

Percival set his jaw, stubbornly.

“A report needs to be written about this,” he repeated and added, firmly, just in case, “By me.”

“Of course,” said Newt in his soothing manner. “And I will pay whatever fine you deem suitable for Henry’s bad behavior. I didn’t see what he did, but I’m sure a fine is deserved. I will also make sure everything he took will be returned.”

Shortly after, dizzy with it all – _Was this really happening?_ – Percival found himself leading Newt and Henry into his office to take a vitally needed statement. It wasn’t until he closed the door behind them and motioned for Newt to take a seat on the comfortable sofa by the windows that Percival realized he had left his dinner, Goldstein, and Adams down into the cafeteria without a parting word or a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback, my friends! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you're still reading, let me know so I'll know it'll be worth writing more chapters.
> 
> Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments are the only feedback I get, so let me know, if you want to read more!


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